


Stamina

by apiphile



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: I wrote this to make a stupid point, In Media Res, M/M, Masturbation, Premature Ejaculation, Voyeurism, author is a massive cockblock, mocking is a form of love, perfect sex is a blight on fandom, screw your fanon the man is not a sex ninja
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-30
Updated: 2010-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames really aren't on level pegging sexually. Eames doesn't consider that a problem but that's not going to stop him from taking the piss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stamina

  
"You know, I have to own up to having entertained certain notions about you," Eames says, wiping the palm of his hand on the bedsheets with a grimace and sitting back, his thighs open and his disappointed erection glaring out through the gap in his trousers, "and I also have to admit that this eventuality didn't really feature in the potential outcomes."

"I said I was sorry," Arthur says, averting his gaze. He coils up on the wicker chair, distractingly naked from the waist-down, and puts his hands briefly over his face; it's the most emotion Eames has see him express when he's not actively having bullets emptied into his foot.

"Oh don't apologise," Eames says, smiling a proper smile, the one that he trained himself out of because it displays his wonky front tooth and makes him far too readily-identifiable beyond such disposable qualities as "oleaginous git" and "talked me into investing in something that doesn't actually exist". He runs his hand – his _other_ hand – through his hair, smoothing the sweat from his brow back into his scalp. "I'm taking it as a testament to my indisputable excellence as a lover."

Arthur snorts. "You barely touched m--_fuck_."

"Or more truthfully," Eames says, putting the smile away and stretching out his feet in turn, "You've clearly been too busy to enjoy yourself for a very long time."

"I'm not going to talk about this," Arthur says firmly, reaching for one of his socks. He is still wearing the other one, and Eames finds the uncharacteristic asymmetry, with its connotations of careless passion and vulnerability, quite a lot more attractive and certainly more endearing than what is currently wilting guiltily in a sticky streak against Arthur's thigh.

Eames strikes like a sexually-frustrated cobra, grabbing Arthur by the wrist. This is possibly a recipe for a broken arm or at the very least a bruised face; he has no doubt that Arthur has learned some scary moves in his ridiculously _ninja_ past, but Eames is not about to let him squirm away without at least one bloody orgasm on his part, thank you very much. "Fine, but you're not leaving."

Arthur stares at his hand for long enough that Eames wonders if he's about to have a finger or two broken, but all he says is, "Do not _ever_ mention this to anyone."

"It hadn't crossed my mind, I swear."

"That wasn't even a convincing lie," Arthur says in a resigned voice, letting his arm go limp. "I know you can do better than that."

"Maybe it was a double-bluff."

"What are you talking about?" he frowns, peeling Eames's unresisting fingers off his wrist and still failing to make eye-contact.

"I don't know," Eames admits, "but you're hardly the first man to get … carried away in the heat of the moment."

"You're _smirking_."

Eames pokes himself in the mouth. "Only a very little. If it helps I can put us on level pegging and start at the beginning again…"

"Is there much point in you using euphemisms when I can see your foreskin?" Arthur asks.

It is quite a reasonable question in any circumstances, but Eames feels that his magnanimity is being insultingly underappreciated; he lies back on the bed, shuffles his trousers down to his thighs, and spits with efficient accuracy into the palm of his hand.

"Maybe you're more of a mimetic learner," he says, cupping his hand over the end of his dick. His dick doesn't give a flying fuck what kind of learner Arthur is, it just wants _someone_ to put some sort of hot wet pressure on it a lot until he blows his load, but Eames has had rather a lot of practice in getting the old chap to if not behave then at least postpone its demands.

"That's not what mimetic means," Arthur mutters, sitting forward on the chair – Eames has the brief and horrifying mental image of him _cheesegrating_ his scrotum on the weave of the seat, but Arthur's clearly got a better sense of spatial awareness than he; he flinches in imagined sympathy all the same – and resting his elbows on his thighs. He subjects Eames to a degree of scrutiny he had foolishly not been expecting, but the challenge has been thrown down now, and there is no backing out of it.

"A demonstration on _restraint_," Eames murmurs, tightening and releasing his fingers, gently, gently. He lets his head fall back against the sleeve of his carelessly discarded suit jacket. "For the man who is too busy to remember how to have sex."

"Is the commentary part of the demonstration?" Arthur asks, pressing his palms together beneath his lips as if he's praying; praying, presumably, for Eames to shut the hell up.

"It adds flavour," Eames says absently, trying to angle his head so that, by peering down his nose, he can still see Arthur silhouetted against the afternoon light that sneaks through the white cotton layered curtains. The look of concentration is one of his favourites; not, of course, that he has been cataloguing them or placing them in any particular order, but it's the one that, after Unexpected Laughter Arthur, makes him most wish he was plastering his mouth over Arthur's like a slap.

"Can I have the version without the flavour?" Arthur jerks on his thighs, and apparently unthinkingly extends a hand, his whole arm unfolding with rolled-up shirt-sleeve still stuck in the crook of his elbow. His fingers brush the line of Eames's inner leg somewhere between "thigh" and "knee", an area of his body he'd never previously considered an erogenous zone.

Eames swallows an unexpected sigh and fixes Arthur's eyes with his, his hand halted while his dick protests.

"Darling, is this what they taught you when you were in the military? To put your grubby hands all over the precision equipment and get in the way when your superiors are trying to show you how it works?"

Arthur sits back with an expression that is equal parts chastened, flabberghasted, amused, and repulsed. "You just called your penis _precision equipment_."

"Well it's more bloody precise than yours is," Eames mutters, keeping a firm grip on the genitals under discussion lest they attempt to contribute.

"Are you sure you don't mean acute?" Arthur scoffs. His variant on _scoffing_ might be a lot less marked than anyone else Eames has met, but when one is familiar with someone's mannerisms … if one has, say, spent a lot of time studying and copying them … the difference between "mild" and "mocking" becomes as noteworthy as the difference between coffee and vanilla.

"Listen, until you can keep yours under control you don't have a single leg to stand on when it comes to mocking Matthew Bourne here." Eames wriggles his fingers in a slow line, but leaves his left hand pressed flat (or as flat as possible) against his abdomen.

"Matthew…?" Arthur asks, resuming his prayer-pose, and his lips touch the tips of his fingers when he speaks.

"Work it out for yourself, smartarse." Eames lies back on the pillows and flexes his hand around the base of his dick. "Where were we?"

"We," Arthur says, but he doesn't follow it up.

Eames shuffles again, props his head up with his left hand, and puts the other to proper use.

There is some additional frisson, he thinks, in knowing – seeing – that Arthur is sitting at the foot of the bed, watching him with concentration and a faintly appraising air, as if he's assessing his performance on aesthetic and athletic grounds. Eames deliberately lets a small _nrgh_ escape from between his lips; he stops holding his jaw shut through will alone and instead bites almost theatrically at his lower lip, right in the middle where the fleshiest, thickest, softest part is.

The change in Arthur's position and the very slight reddening of the tips of his ears is really very gratifying. He licks his lips, and almost _squirms_ in his seat.

Eames picks up the pace and makes a point of letting his hips move in a counterpoint to his hand. Making this much of a meal of a simple wank hasn't been his habit much since puberty, but needs must where the devil drives, and if he'd known Arthur was going to be this _moved_ by a virtuoso slow one off the wrist he'd have put a lot more effort into the last two or three. Since it seems that Mr Irons His Underpants has probably been paying attention.

Maybe the feel of his own skin isn't as much of a welcome exoticism as someone else's, but he thinks that Arthur's unwavering gaze and slightly open mouth are a pretty good exchange for that. Eames feels the start of something in the depths of his belly, the length of his spine, and the lightness behind his eyes. There's a darker taste at the back of his throat, too, dragging his eyelids down and pushing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, but he has a _point_ to prove first.

"I - am - as you can see - getting - nrgh - to - the - brink –" he half-mutters, half-grunts, ending on a choked-back gasp that he could just as easily have swallowed. "The trick here is to slow down and think about something less erotic. I usually - urgh - think about shoe polish but I can see that would just exacerbate matters for you."

When he looks at Arthur's face – and it's hard to focus, hard not to let his eyes just clamp shut (and his hand close and thump harder and his breath batter his lungs) – he can see hot red cheeks, an open mouth, and pupils dilated as if they've had drops in them; but when Arthur speaks his voice is as steady as ever. "Do go on."

"So – kind – of you," Eames grunts.

"Need a hand?"

Eames shakes his head, his tongue-tip caught between his teeth, holding himself on the very precipice like a man preparing to abseil down the side of an endless cliff; there is a perverse joy to be got from denial this close to satisfaction.

"_Want_ a hand?" Arthur corrects himself, leaning further forward.

"Wouldn't – say – no – to – a – _mouth_."

A light flickers in the dark pits of Arthur's eyes, just for a second, a hint of something else. "Say please."

There's a moment when Eames could say almost anything, but his tongue is trapped into a course (not that he'll ever admit this) and he can't escape the image now it's been offered; he wants that geometrical perfection wrapped around his dick.

"Please – then."

And that's all it takes. Arthur's hands are acutely accurate in their pressure, holding his thighs tight enough to steady but not enough to bruise (well, maybe next time). His thighs are hot and naked against Eames's hand as it strays to the back of them like a drunk driver to the central divider; his hair is coarse and thick prickly under the other. His dick is maybe half-hard.

And his mouth is not expert, not by any means; it's sloppy and imprecise and _unprofessional_, and Eames nearly swallows his tongue with impatience at each fresh failure, but when he comes he nearly loses sensation in his fingers and toes, and he manages to open his eyes in time to watch Arthur wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"Thank you," Eames says with only a little sarcasm, because good manners cost nothing.

Arthur looks confused, and contemplative, as he slides sideways and, finally, reaches down to remove the other sock. Eames mourns its passing internally, and for only a second.

"Who," Arthur says, leaning away to drop the sock with its pair, "is Matthew Bourne?"

"He's a ballet choreographer," Eames snorts, tugging his jacket sleeve out from under his own head and sinking further back into the bed. "You … uncultured person." He inhales through his nose. The smell of Arthur's sweat overpowers almost everything else, including – for once – his own overabundant perspiration. "He makes beautiful men do beautiful things with their bodies. I thought it appropriate."

All he gets in reply is a frown. "You really named your penis after a ballet choreographer?"

"… Arthur, I didn't name my penis _anything_." Eames directs his gaze at the ceiling and refrains from adding, _but you can call it "yours" if you want_. It's too soon.


End file.
